


the city under the city

by snewsies (waltswhits)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, F/F, F/M, M/M, Magic AU, still takes place in New York though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltswhits/pseuds/snewsies
Summary: or, magical new york......Spot knew better than anyone else that New York was a city full of secrets...





	1. prologue, or, better and worse

**Author's Note:**

> so this has been rattling around in my head and i decided to publish it? who knows  
> follow me on tumblr @transpotconlon!!

Spot knew better than anyone else that New York was a city full of secrets.   
The dark alleys and grimy streets were only the facade to a secret city, hidden beyond the reach of most who lived there. There were sometimes glimpses- a heavy curtain slid to the side of the sooty window of a room full of wonders, heavy footsteps around a corner stopping mid-run, crowds coming and going from abandoned stoops- always quick and traceless. Most people dismissed these occurrences instantly, but not Spot Conlon.   
Spot knew that this hidden world was where he belonged. He just needed to get there.

 

* * *

 

He was six. His mother sat him down on the bed with a necklace to play with and left.   
He sat idly for two hours, but she did not return. His eyes shrouded with tears, he threw the necklace to the ground. It was not until he stopped crying that he saw the singe marks in the plaster wall- circular and about the size of the pearls in his mother’s necklace.

 

He was nine. His mother and father had been yelling for half an hour. He was never home, and the money and the food coming in grew less and less. Sean sat on the fire escape where he usually slept, staring out at the night sky, wishing with every part of his heart to be anywhere but there. He screwed his eyes closed in concentration, and with a sudden flash, his wish came true.

 

He was twelve. He sat on a snowy stoop, wrapped in a thin blanket, holding a rag spotted with blood. It had been a week since his last meal, and a month since he'd slept in a bed. The bitter cold and the dull ache in his chest was all he could feel. His only thought was to scream out for help, but his lungs were too heavy for him to utter a single word. Suddenly, it all went black.   
He awoke warm, in a small, strange bed. A boy about his age looked down at him, smiling at him.   
"You're awake, spotty."  
Sean's jaw fell open, but he could give no voice to his endless questions.   
"Just sleep now, you'll get better. Something told me you needed me."

 

He was fifteen. He had sold his papers for the day, and his pocket rattled with change. Spot walked leisurely downtown for a few blocks, when something caught his eye- a flash of bluish light in an alley to his right. He further slowed his pace and crept toward the small gap between two tenements.   
Among the dust and debris, two men in crisp suits hovered over a small, shabby looking man against the back wall. The two men held thin sticks up to the smaller man's throat, and this seemed to be terrifying, though Spot couldn't imagine how. He couldn't hear their conversation, but it was definitely some sort of intimidation or threat. One suited man flicked his stick toward their victim- and a bolt of green light streamed from the end, and the man went limp. The men pocketed their strange sticks- which were obviously not normal sticks- and the taller man threw the body over his shoulder.   
Spot watched them leave the alley, and noticed a similar looking stick poking out of the victim's back pocket. He swiftly snatched it away, and went back the way he came, stick in his fist.

 

He was seventeen. He stood on the stoop of an abandoned townhouse, stopping for a moment to scan the street before entering the building and closing the door swiftly behind him. The home had not been empty long, so it was unlikely he'd have company. Spot followed the hall to a small, bare room in the rear of the building. Sitting for a moment on a window ledge, he settled his gold tipped cane between his legs, and yanked the knob aside to reveal an inner compartment. Intended to house knives, Spot used the slim compartment to hold his wand, which he shimmied out of the cane.   
Putting the hollow cane aside, Spot twirled the wand in his fingers before gripping it firmly and pointing it at a side wall. He flicked his wrist quickly and uttered one word: "light". He felt a small reaction in the wood, but no light emerged from its tip. Not willing to give up, Spot pointed, flicked, and swished the wand while saying as many different words as he could think of. He knew he was getting closer to figuring out how to use the wand, and he wasn’t about to give up.

 


	2. chapter one, or, returning

David Jacobs stepped gingerly out of the carriage onto the crowded, smoggy platform 6 and 1/4. He clutched his small brown case to his chest and strode into the throng. He was dressed in modest and utilitarian fashion, the striped shirtwaist and tweed trousers a far cry from the vibrant cranberry and blue uniform he had taken off for the last time earlier that morning.   
Any other year, he would have met his family there on the crowded tile. But David had left early after graduating, and his brother and sister had a week left of school. His parents were likely already furiously tidying their cramped tenement home, anxiously awaiting his arrival.   
David crossed the platform quickly, weaving through the crowds of wizarding families with the casual ease of a born New Yorker. He pulled open the heavy wooden door set into the tiled wall, and stepped out onto the polished marble of Grand Central Station. The door closed gently behind him, looking on this side to be a nondescript utility closet. David folded into the masses of ordinary New Yorkers in the bright, skylit station. He gazed up at the blue sky sheathed by grungy glass, a bittersweet smile crossing his face. But David had little time to waste daydreaming. He tore his eyes down, tugged his case closer to his chest, and strode out into the sunny street. 

\---

At half past five, David Jacobs crossed the threshold of the Jacobs home, winded though he'd apparated half of the journey. He had barely set his suitcase down before his mother rushed up to envelop him in a suffocating hug.   
"Oh there he is, my little Davey is finally home!"   
"Hello, mother." David eked out a smile, though he felt as if all the air was being sucked out of his chest.  
"Now, Esther, he's nearly an adult now." His father admonished, "and graduated too, not to mention with perfect grades."  
David was released at last from his mother's grip with an adoring pat on the head. He took a seat at his usual place at the table, his dinner of thin soup already waiting there.   
Before David could do anything more than smile back, his father began, in a tone that meant business, “we were wondering if you had thought at all about your career, now that you’ve graduated. I’m sure there are plenty of offices in the ministry that would take you on.”   
David had thought about his career, a great deal, in fact. His prevailing thought was that he had no idea what he wanted. Instead of making that plain, David merely nodded and took a spoonful of broth, waiting for the inevitable shift in conversation.


	3. chapter two, or, poker face

Spot was becoming more than a little annoyed. Yet his boulder-solid stoic facade did not crack as he watched Racetrack Higgins pocket another dollar of loose change.  
Race leaned back in the wooden chair, arms behind his head as he let out a dramatized sigh. “Better pack it all up, boys, don’t want to have you lose much more...”  
Spot scowled at his smugness.  
Mush shook his head in disbelief, gathering the cards into a neat pile. “I really don’t know how he does it. I don’t think Race has ever left from a poker game empty handed.” He felt around in his pockets, emptier than they had been an hour earlier, “but me, well, not so lucky.”  
Blink pulled a reassuring arm around Mush’s shoulder and led him out of the room. “Must be magic, eh Mushy?”  
For a moment, Spot forgot breath. Could Race be magical? Did he have the answers he sought?  
One by one, the remaining boys left, their pockets light and heads shaking, save Spot and Race.  
Race picked up the deck of cards and patted it on the table a few times to straighten it out. Nimbly, Spot stepped down from his windowsill perch and stood next to Race, his presence looming despite his meagre stature.  
“How do you do it?” Spot asked softly after a moment of baited silence.  
“I really don’t know,” Race pocketed the deck. “Just always been that way, I guess. When I was around...six, I tried to play marbles with the older boys in the alleys, like they always used to. Except they didn’t much like my playing, because I would always win and take all their best shooters.” Race’s eyes met Spot’s. “Guess I’ve always been lucky...like magic.” He laughed it off like a joke, but a slight hesitation hinted truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm well that took me a remarkably long time to update. stay tuned for more!  
> follow me on tumblr @transpotconlon for more writing, pictures of spot conlon, and my other random thoughts.


End file.
